


I Wanna Hold Your Hand

by deviouskirin



Category: Chicago Blackhawks - Fandom, Hockey RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, a bit of hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:06:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deviouskirin/pseuds/deviouskirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh please say to me<br/>You'll let me be your man<br/>And please say to me<br/>You'll let me hold your hand</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wanna Hold Your Hand

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to my LJ, and written for Charlie.
> 
> Standard Disclaimer: don't own, no profits made, etc.

The bus hits a pothole, jarring Patrick out of his light doze. Nearing three in the morning, the only noise is the soft hush of the guys sleeping, a few faint strains of music. Shifting his weight off his left hip, still sore from the check he’d taken in a game last week, Patrick leans back into his seat as his eyes close. Jonathan’s fingers, slightly clammy from the heat trapped under their shared blanket, squeeze his own. Patrick grins, and lets the vibrations of the road carry him off to sleep.

***

Patrick comes off the ice, chest heaving and his knees on fire. Duncs hands over his water bottle, and claps him on the back.

“It was a good run,” the older man assures him, though they both know the words won’t make a difference; Patrick has been off his stride all period, waffling on shots and dropping pucks left and right. He’s lucky none of his mistakes have cost them their tenuous lead, especially since there are only seven minutes left in the game.

Coach Q is shouting, barking orders as he tries to keep the guys from buckling under the Flyers’ assault. Patrick tries to shut it out, to get his head back to that euphoric place that took over when he was at his best, and it takes him a while to realize Tazer has taken his hand, awkwardly shoving their fingers together despite the clumsy bulk of their gloves.

When the shift change comes, with less than two minutes and a tied score, Patrick doesn’t even care that his glove slips off, and he has to go chasing after it across the ice, trying not to smile as Jonathan laughs for the first time all game.

***

“Shove over, Kaner,” Brent grumbles, elbowing the younger man in the side. “How do you take up so much room, as short as you are?”

“It’s a gift,” Patrick grins, shifting to make room on the couch. If it just so happens to put him close enough to Jonathan to lean against his side, well, that’s just a bonus. “I’m plenty big enough where it counts.”

“Shut up!” Brian hollers from the floor in front of them, glaring over his shoulder. “The best part’s coming, and we can’t hear.”

“Dude, it’s _Slap Shot_ , you’ve seen it a million times.”

Somebody tosses a pillow, and someone else knocks over the popcorn, and half the team is suddenly in a dog pile, wrestling across the carpet. Jonathan shakes his head, shooting Patrick a small smile when their hands meet on the cushion between them. Sharpie grins at them from the other couch, wrapping his arm around Abby and dropping an absent kiss in her hair. They miss the best part of the movie, but their fingers are tangled together and their friends are having a good time, so it doesn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things.

***

He knows how the events are going to unfold, knows it before they take shape on the ice. He sees the hit coming, too fast and too hard and too low. Sees him leave his feet, and hears, over the rush of his blood pounding through his ears and the noises of the fans, the sound of a spine meeting the unforgiving metal of the goal.

Shoving his way through the linemen attempting to keep order, his focus is narrowed down to one thing: Jonathan, curled over on his side, bare fingers digging into the ice as he tries not to pant for the breath he’d lost, for fear of doing more damage. Someone tries to keep him back, but he shoves them away, feels a brief flicker of gratitude when Sharpie threatens to throw down if they don’t let him near.

There’s shouting, loud and panicked, as he uses his teeth to pull off his gloves, wrapping frozen fingers in the warm circle of his palms. Coach Q, hollering about obvious intent to harm, the trainers calling for a stretcher, to alert the hospital that they’d be on their way in a few minutes, linemen trying to break up a fight. Duncan, and Brent, screaming death threats, emphasized by the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

He stays there, kneeling on the ice, rubbing warmth back into fingers twitching in pain, wishing there was more he could do.

***

Patrick stares at the doors they’d just whisked Jonny through, suddenly at a loss. He’d known what he was doing, up until this point. Steal the paramedic’s scissors, to cut his laces so he could kick off his skates, make it easier to walk; quell the argument about him riding in the ambulance with a flat gaze, because he’d turn over for _Pronger_ before letting someone keep him from Jonny’s side; tell Jonny that it would be okay, that everything was going to be fine, because for all his bravado, if you knew how to look for it- and Patrick did, even after such a short time- Tazer was terrified. But now that they’ve whisked Jonny off for scans and x-rays, disappearing him into parts of the hospital Patrick can’t follow him to? He’s lost, and his hand feels weird, without Jonny’s trembling fingers safely tucked against his.

***

When he wakes up, the first thing he feels is Patrick’s hand covering his own, pressing his palm against the scratchy hospital blanket. Sweat has pooled and dried, pooled and dried, but it doesn't matter, because Pat’s there, holding his hand, anchoring him. Even once the pain filters through, and his muscles and nerves start screaming, Patrick just holds on tighter, and helps him through it.  
***

This isn’t exactly how he imagined them coming out to more than just their families. In those speculative, “what if” discussions, they’d always assumed it would be their choice, done their way, in their own sweet time. Unfortunately, Patrick’s reaction to Jonathan’s injury had caused a lot of speculation, and everyone wanted to know: are they more than just friends and teammates? Patrick wouldn’t change the way he’d acted for anything in the world, but that doesn’t mean he has to like all this attention.

“Stop fidgeting,” Jonny hisses, grabbing the hand that has drifted up to worry at his shirt collar for the thousandth time. He gives it a squeeze, tangling their fingers together out of sight of the cameras.

Later, after dozens of calls from distant family and what seems like every person they’d ever played hockey with, Patrick caves into his curiosity and turns on _Sports Center_ , just in time to catch a clip of their interview. There, in high-definition, surround sound, the anchor talks about the macho reputation of hockey, and sports in general, distracting from what is obviously a solid, loving relationship. It’s a load of crap, because he and Jonny are not that sappy, but Patrick feels the tingle all over again as he watches Tazer’s thumb stroke slow circles over the inside of his wrist.

***

Jonathan’s palm slips, throwing off his balance and bringing him down with more force than expected. Patrick groans, tightening his fingers around Jonny’s as he watches him from beneath his lashes. Head thrown back to expose a long, vulnerable neck, thighs straining as his hips rise and fall, it’s one of the most beautiful things Patrick’s ever seen.

He plants his feet flat on the bed, unable to keep still any longer. Jonny leans further over him, putting more weight on their joined hands, moaning as Patrick takes over, setting a harder, faster rhythm. The sensations build, dragging breathless cries and curses from them, and it’s hard to keep his eyes open as Jonny shudders and jerks, dragging Patrick along with him.

Everything seems to fade to white, vision, hearing, even the pleasure of orgasm, stretching and exploding until it encompasses him, mutes him to the world outside that feeling. Patrick forgets, just for a moment, almost everything. The one thing he holds on to, through it all, is Jonny’s palms against his own, the pressure of their fingers laced together.


End file.
